Page 34 of Miss Determined
“Beast has odd form,” Phillip said as Trevor slowed Roland to a canter and then to a trot. “Not many horses run with their heads that low.”
“Eclipse did,” Lissa retorted. “He won a race or two in his day.”
“Eclipse?”
Lissa was reminded that Phillip, for all he could prose on about manure and marling, had gaps in his gentlemanly vocabulary.
“Eclipse was a thoroughbred sire who retired undefeated after eighteen starts. Nobody would compete against him by that point, so he was put out to stud and died at the venerable age of twenty-four in 1789. I wonder if Roland comes from that line.”
Roland looked pleased with himself, trotting along the riverbank, and Trevor looked… magnificent and dear, also windblown, ruddy-cheeked, and exhilarated. He’d passed Lissa his hat before taking his place at the starting line half a mile on, and the morning sun loved those golden, tousled tresses.
Drat the man, he looked eminently kissable.
“Time?” he called, which sent Roland skittering sideways. “Settle, silly boy.” The affection in Trevor’s voice, if not his competence in the saddle, had Roland recalling his manners.
Phillip looked at the pocket watch in his hand. “Forty-eight seconds, maybe a hair more.”
Trevor patted the horse’s sweaty neck. “You’re sure this is a half-mile course?”
“Dabney swears it is,” Lissa said. “Is that a fast time?”
Trevor nodded. “He’s carrying a lot of weight, he’s not been conditioned, and it’s a mere hop by racing standards, but put some strength and stamina on him, and he’ll be formidable.”
“Time?” Sycamore Dorning asked, trotting up from the starting line on a handsome bay.
“Fifty-two seconds for the half mile,” Lissa said.
Sycamore Dorning looked to Trevor. “Fifty-two seconds. You’re sure?”
Phillip passed up the watch. Dorning peered at it, then handed it back. “How much do you want for that colt, Miss DeWitt? One of my brothers is the best animal trainer in the land. Willow prefers to work with dogs, but he’s no slouch with horses or even ravens. We Dornings are countrymen at heart and know how to bring a beast along so he can grow into his speed. Roland would have the best care and spend his days doing what he clearly loves to do.”
Trevor seemed amused at this offer, while Lissa was annoyed. “Are you always so impulsive, Mr. Dorning?”
“I know what I saw, Miss DeWitt. Heyward had no reason to keep inaccurate time. True, the horse is largish and runs with irregular form, and he’d be getting a late start, but that colt can cover ground.”
Lissa expected either Phillip or Trevor to respond to those observations. Trevor let Roland amble in a wide circle around the finish line, and Phillip had lapsed into one of his characteristic silences.
“Eclipse was largish,” she said, “and ran with irregular form—the same irregular form Roland apparently prefers when his rider has the confidence to yield the reins. Any number of champions haven’t started racing until they were four or five years old. Be that as it may, you cannot buy that horse from me, because I don’t own him. My brother does, and Gavin has expressed no wish to sell Roland.”
“What about a lease?” Mr. Dorning asked as Roland snatched at the grass along the towpath. “A long-term lease. I tell you, Miss DeWitt, that colt is going to waste here in the shires. He has potential.”
“Desist,” Trevor said, swinging from the saddle and loosening the girth. “You are attempting to talk business with a lady before breakfast. Bad form.”
Sycamore looked tempted to persist with negotiations, which inclined Lissa to think poorly of him. Not only was it bad form to talk business with a lady before breakfast, it was worse form to argue with her at any hour of the day
“I thought…” Phillip stashed his watch into his jacket pocket. “Rather, I had hoped…”
He wasn’t blushing, but he was staring hard at the dark surface of the Twid, which he’d likely seen every day of his life.
“Phillip?” Lissa murmured.
“I can offer breakfast,” Phillip said, “should anybody care for some food. Nothing fancy, but… I can offer breakfast.”
If Sycamore Dorning was impulsive, Phillip was the soul of deliberation. He’d spend three years considering whether a field ought to be switched from oats to barley and then take two more growing seasons to swap the field one half at a time. He’d dither all the while over the wisdom of the change, measuring and recording the resulting crops to the ounce.
Phillip was cautious to the point of peculiarity, and while he might occasionally trot out a tea tray for a caller, he had never, in Lissa’s memory, entertained guests for a meal.
“I’m famished,” Trevor said, “and I can truthfully say that Sycamore Dorning’s appetite is legendary. Takes his sustenance very seriously, don’t you, Dorning?”
